Snow and Ashes
by CarryOnMyWaywardDaughters
Summary: January 1984. Something is hunting the Winchesters. Battling the elements, and himself, John desperately searches for a safe haven for his family. Part 3 of Salt and Ashes, a genderbent look at the Winchester childhood years. Reading the earlier fics is a good idea, but not required. Protective!John, Abundance of feels, and lots of weechesters. Rated T for minor language.
1. Chapter 1

Welcome back! If you're new, don't worry! You don't have to read the other Fanfics first. It might help your understanding of this one a little, but it's no biggie. Enjoy!

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If there was one thing John Winchester prided himself on as a parent, it was his ability to carry both his children at the same time. He never imagined using that talent like this.

It was back. Whatever thing crept into their room at Mike's house, that invisible presence of malice, it was here. As John washed Jacob's blood off a chill had tremored up his spine.

Both girls were still asleep. Bitter wind sought to nip and grab at them as John rushed to the Impala. Backed in after arriving at the motel, it hadn't moved for a few days, watching over the girls whenever John briefly left to add to their dwindling food supply. It stayed there when Jacob came, looking for the girls. It stayed when he left with John to the cemetery where that—that _thing_ tore holes in Jacob that John hadn't seen the likes of since Vietnam. The cold clung to John's sleeves, damp from trying to rinse out Jacob's blood.

John opened the back door of the Impala, fumbling with the handle. Deanna stirred in his arms, lifting a hand to rub at her eyes. John set her in the backseat first. Blinking bleary eyes at him, she rubbed her eyes again. Leaning across her, John tried to keep his voice level, to keep the panic out as he struggled to settle Sammy in her car seat. "Buckle your sister in." He didn't wait to see whether she did.

The feeling of being followed had disappeared while they'd been with Fletcher. Fletcher didn't think anything was following them, and John honestly felt Fletcher thought of them as an unnecessary burden. So they left. For a few weeks afterwards, they'd stayed in Des Moines. The holidays came and went. The Lawrence police officially declared the Winchester case closed, on Christmas of all days. As far as they were concerned, Mary Winchester died in an electrical fire and her grieving family left the city. So close, yet so far from the truth.

Now the thing was back.

All their personal belongings stayed in the car. Besides the children, only things that could be replaced came into the motel rooms. It was for that reason that as soon as the girls were in the car John didn't bother going back into the motel room, despite the bag of things still inside. John had his children, nothing else mattered.

Key already in the ignition, John slammed the car door and turned the key. A flash of light in the side mirror caught his eye. Not a flash of light, a flash of _color_ , of yellow. John's blood stilled, panic flaring. A dark figure moved towards them in the open door of the motel room, the door John knew closed behind them. A silhouette in the shadows with spots of yellow where John imagined the eyes should be.

Jacob's last words rang in John's ears. ' _Yellow eyed.'_

John smashed his foot on the accelerator, the Impala lurching forward as the figure in the motel room did the same. He saw, or rather got the impression of a hand reaching forward as if to grab them. The Impala flew off the curb and landed with a screech of tires on the small town road. Sammy woke up crying, but John didn't dare let his foot off the gas pedal. He didn't know where he was going. He just knew that he had to run, to get as far from that _thing_ as he possibly could. To get his children as far from it as he possibly could. Snowflakes whipped by in the Impala's headlights, sticking to the car in a vain effort to slow it down.

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Just a quick note: Jacob Campbell is a character featured in the 'John Winchester's Journal' and the Rising Son (?) comics, and he's left very vague. In the comic at least, Dean calls him "Uncle Jacob", indicating that he's Mary's brother. However, this isn't made clear, and it's confusing. He's either Mary's brother or her uncle. Neither of these sources are strictly canon, however, and he's never mentioned in the show-unless he's the uncle that paid for Mary's gravestone. Like I said, very unclear. However, i've decided to use him, and I'm working under the assumption he's her brother. Hope that cleared things up a bit.

Favorite, follow, and review!


	2. Chapter 2

Sorry this is late guys! I hung out with a friend yesterday and didn't realize until this morning that I'd forgotten to post this week's chapter!

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The little diner wasn't busy, luckily enough. John knew he looked like hell. Even with changing out of his bloodstained shirt he still looked like hell. He hadn't let off the gas pedal until past noon. He wasn't sure exactly where they were, but he thought it might be somewhere in Wisconsin. He didn't dare ask anyone. After the panic of the previous night, he could hardly bear the thought of stopping to eat. Stopping meant giving that thing time to catch up. With Sammy screaming, having long since finished her last bottle of formula and Deanna actually _speaking_ to ask him for food, he forced himself to calm down. He promised Deanna that they'd stop in the next town they came to. It was two hours before they rolled into this tiny town in the middle of nowhere.

John counted the remaining money carefully before ordering. The last thing they needed was trouble with the law because he couldn't pay the bill. Two months ago, the thought of not being able to feed his family was foreign to John. Now, it was a very real possibility. He'd stretched their meals as much as he could, eating only enough to dull the ache of hunger, stockpiling leftovers. It was the only reason the money lasted this long to begin with. He let Deanna eat her fill though. If any of them had to starve, it was going to be him, and only him. Sammy had her shrinking supply of formula and baby food. John wouldn't need anything for her for a few days, so there was that, at least.

Deanna watched Sammy gulp down a fresh bottle of formula in frustration. They were all starving, but Sammy didn't have to wait for her food like they did. John fought the growling of his empty stomach, sure it would scare the hell out of everyone within five miles. Including himself. He could feel the ache of hunger in his bones, down to the tips of his toes. His teeth and gums were dry and aching. When the food finally arrived, he wasn't sure he'd be able to eat it around the intense nausea swirling around his stomach.

Deanna nearly inhaled the food when it came. She whipped through her small plate, even though the hashed browns had gravy on them, something Deanna would refuse to eat a few months ago. She'd been such a picky eater before the fire, always had been. Had to have the crusts cut off the bread, wouldn't eat this, wouldn't eat that. John hadn't noticed before now that she didn't complain about her food anymore. He found himself wishing that she would. Kids were supposed to complain about food, to be fussy about what they ate. There was a lump in John's throat as he watched Deanna eat. It wasn't fair, wasn't right. She was his little girl and she deserved better.

John didn't touch his food until Sammy finished her bottle. Not because he couldn't, but because he wouldn't until he knew both girls had eaten. Deanna was eyeing John's plate as he started eating. He chewed thoughtfully, looking at his oldest daughter. Had she always been that skinny? Her eyes were beginning to look sunken.

John put his fork down, sliding the plate in front of Deanna. "You hungry?"

Deanna stared at the food, shifting against the vinyl booth cushion. She frowned a little, gnawing her lip. It reminded him fiercely of Mary. Shaking her head, she turned to look at him. "I'm okay." She murmured, looking back down at her hands.

John raised his eyebrows briefly in disbelief before frowning. She was obviously hungry. In the past few weeks, she barely needed any prompting before diving into his food. John might've gone a little hungry, but he made sure she didn't whenever he could help it.

Deanna nudged the plate back towards John. "You can eat it Daddy."

John's heart constricted as he realized what was happening. Pride in her mixed with his own shame at the circumstances that lead to this. He'd been giving up his food to feed her, and she'd finally noticed. She was hungry, but knew he hadn't eaten much yet. John smiled, planting a kiss on her head. Pain shot through his stomach as he moved. "It's okay sweetheart, go ahead and eat it." Deanna looked up at him, the unmistakable gleam of hope in her eyes. That little gleam cemented his resolve, even as his body screamed at him. "I'm full."

They didn't end up leaving with leftovers.

* * *

John managed to find a map in the glovebox. It was worn down and faded from use. Roads from Lawrence to Arizona were still highlighted. It didn't seem like ten years since that summer road trip with Mary, when they were newlyweds, on their way to the Grand Canyon for their honeymoon. His ability to read a map hadn't improved in the last ten years. It might help if he knew where they were going. Before going to Missouri and learning the truth, John had a vague notion of going to Maine, where his mother lived. In his mind, that was still the plan. After finding the little spit of a town they were in(he'd been right, they were in Wisconsin), John unfolded the map until he could see both Wisconsin and Maine. The map sprawled over the dash as John traced a route, mentally adding up the miles.

He hadn't spoken to his mother since before the fire. He hadn't even been the one to call her to tell her about Mary. Mike made that call, ended up talking to John's stepfather instead of his mother. She'd been in the hospital for something-Mike didn't ask-and couldn't take the call. She'd tried calling since, but in the near catatonia after the fire, John couldn't bring himself to talk to her. He couldn't talk to anyone more than necessary. Like Deanna. Maybe that psychologist had a point, and Deanna didn't talk because he didn't either. In any case, she'd been the one that called Jacob and told him about Mary. Poor Jacob. They may not have gotten along very well, but Jacob was the closest thing to a brother he'd ever had. And as much as they'd fought in recent years, Jacob still cared about Mary. Still looked after his little sister.

And now they both were gone.

Blinking away tears, John looked out the window, away from his thoughts. Fat, fluffy snowflakes fell heavily to the ground. The Impala's windows fogged as John blasted the heater. The radio buzzed low, static and incoherent. From what John could make out, snowstorms slammed most of the northern US. Over a thousand snowy miles lay between them and the small bed and breakfast his mother owned. Mentally John shrugged. It wasn't the best option in the world, but it was the only option they had. He was running out of money, food. The Impala was quickly running out of gas. If he'd been thinking clearly, it would be obvious that it wasn't enough to make the drive to Maine, but hunger clouded his mind.

Sammy finally fell asleep as the Impala pulled away from the small town and into the snowstorm.

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Thanks for reading guys! I hope you're enjoying the story so far! If you are, leave a comment or a favorite to let me know! It makes a HUGE difference! See ya'll soon (sooner than you probably think. Hit the follow author button so you don't miss anything!)


	3. Chapter 3

Sorry for the late upload...again. There's nothing like working a night shift followed by a morning shift to wipe you out. Yeah I know, excuses excuses. I got home and spent the rest of my day in bed, basically. I've also been doing camp nanowrimo, so that's an added pressure...one i've put on myself.

Anyways, this was one of my favorite chapters to write. To edit...not so much. Yet another reason why it's late. The Winchester need to put other before themselves comes back to bite John this chapter.

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Everything was white, from the flat plains to John's knuckles. They had to backtrack, heading south to get around Lake Michigan. Every few seconds John had to jerk the steering wheel to compensate for the high winds buffeting the car back and forth. John hadn't seen another car for over an hour. Visibility was quickly fading. As the day went on, the storm grew worse.

John's head ached. He longed to sleep, but he couldn't stop. He had to keep going. He could sleep when the girls were safe. Despite the fading light of the sun, the snow glare hurt John's eyes. Moving his head hurt his eyes. Everything hurt. He couldn't stop shivering, though he had the heater turned up all the way. Both girls were asleep in the backseat. Deanna had fallen asleep with her head resting against Sammy's car seat, her arm draped over her baby sister. Each time he felt like stopping, he looked back at them. They counted on him, and he couldn't let them down. So John kept driving.

As the snow continued falling, the roads continued to worsen. The Impala, John's trusty companion since 1973, did its best. It struggled to plow a safe path through the snow, swerving now and then on particularly icy patches. John quickly corrected each time, maintaining a death grip on the wheel.

The radio having faded to static long ago, John replaced it with a cassette. Normally he avoided playing rock music with the girls in the car, but he had to find some way to keep himself awake. His eyelids were heavy, and he shook himself to stave off sleep. He drummed his fingers on the wheel, softly singing along. He didn't have the best voice in the world, but he'd always liked singing. Mary liked it. When they were pregnant with Deanna, she would have him lay his head on her chest and sing to her swollen belly. That's what they were doing the first time Deanna kicked. They spent the next hour trying to get her to do it again. Of course since she was a Winchester (and therefore stubborn as hell) she didn't kick again for another two weeks. John looked at her in the rearview mirror and smiled.

The Impala swerved violently. The world spun. Tires squealed as the Impala whirled end to end. John's vision became a blur of featureless white and black. His stomach leapt as if he were on a carnival ride. Deanna woke up, crying out as she flew into the door. John's neck snapped to one side as the Impala hit a snowbank and shuddered to a halt.

Hands shaking against the steering wheel, John twisted in his seat to check on the girls. Sam was still asleep, somehow. Deanna clutched her arm, biting her lip to keep from crying.

"You alright?" John asked. In the heat of the moment, it came out louder, sharper than he intended.

Eyes wide, Deanna nodded.

"Sammy alright?"

Deanna glanced over at her sister, looked back at John and nodded. John let himself relax, easing his grip on the wheel.

John forced himself to smile reassuringly at Deanna. "The car spun in the snow, but everything is okay. Kinda scary waking up like that, huh?" He was rewarded with seeing Deanna smile and relax. She nodded, settling back in her seat as John turned back around.

Settling his foot on the gas once more, John fully expected the Impala to glide back onto the road. Tires squealed and spun in place, engine revving furtively. John swore, shifting into neutral. "Stupid tires." He turned back to Deanna, who looked worried again. He forced another smile, slipping on his sparse winter gear as he spoke. "Everything's alright, the tires are just stuck. I'm going to dig 'em out, so just stay in the car, okay?" Deanna nodded slowly, pressing her lips together.

Icy wind blasted John, slamming the car door as soon as he was out of the way. He sunk to his ankles in snow. Snow blasted in his face, clawing at his eyes. Pulling the collar of his leather jacket up he trudged to the back of the Impala, checking the driver side tires briefly. Neither was stuck. The passenger side tires however were deep in snowdrift.

John found that he didn't actually feel that cold, despite the constant shivering. In the back of his mind that registered as very wrong. He shook the thought off. Right now, he had to free the Impala. Hacking around each tire with gloved hands, he slowly, painstakingly, cleared a path back to the road. The effort pulled at his empty stomach. Head throbbing, John gritted his teeth. The words of a drill sergeant came to mind: ' _Muscle through it, Winchester_.' Or had that been his baseball coach?

The blood rushed from John's head for a moment and he stumbled against the Impala. Breathing deeply, he waited for the light-headedness to pass. The world spun horizontally, somehow going left, right, and sideways at the same time. Stars danced in front of his eyes. Snow swirled and blasted in his face, finding each gap in his clothing. The cold seeped in and the shivering intensified. Supporting himself with an arm on the hood of the impala, John made his way back to the trunk. Vision clearing he dug his boots into the snow. Bracing himself, he pushed against the Impala. It inched forward, moving like cold molasses. Muscles burning, John paused, breathing heavily. It wasn't as if he'd never done this before. He worked in an auto garage for pete's sake! He did this all the time. Pushing a car like this should be nothing, and yet…

John's vision blurred again. Stars swirled in his eyes and his head spun. He felt weightless, yet his limbs were heavy. John slumped against the back of the Impala, everything going white as he fell to the ground.


	4. Chapter 4

John could hear Deanna, as if she were far away. Or as if he were far away, at the bottom of the well. That wasn't right. What was she doing? He told her to stay in the car. She needed to get back in the car, it wasn't safe. Why wasn't it safe? John couldn't remember. He felt warm and heavy. Something slick and unyielding pressed against the side of his head. He felt as if his whole body was sinking into the ground, sinking into blissful darkness. That wasn't right. He needed to get up. Deanna kept screaming for him to get up, to wake up. He felt so _peaceful_ though, why get up? His body was too heavy to move.

Deanna screamed for him again, long and drawn out. "DAD-DY!" It echoed, bouncing around in his skull. It was faint, but tugged at John's consciousness. Deanna needed him. He had to get up, he had to protect her. John grunted, fighting to open his eyes. They were so heavy. His eyelids shouldn't be that heavy. The darkness pulled at him, lulling him back into oblivion. It was such a familiar feeling. Where had he felt that before? A slow, lulling cadence thrummed through his veins. Too slow, and too familiar. Like the motion of an old grandfather clock slowing down. Tick. Tock. Down to it's last minutes. When had he felt this before? The heaviness pulled away from the thought. Too difficult, too long ago to think of. It'd be easier to sink into the darkness. So familiar, though it'd been, what twelve years since he'd felt it? John felt like laughing at the thought. Twelve years? Twelve years ago he'd been in Vietnam. As if a gong had been struck in his mind , realization dawned on John. Twelve years ago he'd nearly died. Deanna was screaming for him to wake up and he wasn't waking up.

 _No!_

John's eyes snapped open. Adrenaline soared through his veins, heart painfully pumping in an effort to keep up. He lay on his side, looking underneath the Impala. The snow was freezing cold against his face. Something large and dark loomed over him. Movement down towards his feet caught his eye. Craning his head down, he could see little legs struggling to find purchase in the snow as the Impala rolled backwards—

John shot up, bracing himself against the Impala. It lurched to a halt and Deanna slipped in the snow, falling to John's feet; her hands still pressed against the back of the Impala. She breathed heavily, breath leaving her body in shuddering heaves.

The fog lifted from John's mind. He must have passed out while pushing the Impala out of the snow bank and it rolled back towards him. Somehow, Deanna noticed and tried to stop it from crushing him. Tried to get him to wake up.

"I told you to stay in the car!" John's first thought was panic. What was she thinking? The Impala could have crushed her! It would have killed her! Worry and panic vanished at the look on her face. Her body slumped with exhaustion, she sobbed quietly. John threw his arms around her, pulling her into his chest. She started shaking in his arms, crying aloud now.

She'd tried to save his life. No, she _had_ saved his life. He patted her back, trying to soothe her. "Good girl," he whispered. Pulling back, he smoothed her hair away from her tear streaked face. "Now, what do you say we get this car back on the road?"

Deanna nodded, fighting down her sobs. Together, though it was mostly John, they pushed the Impala forward until it finally rolled free of the snow bank. It slid to a stop as they stopped pushing. John picked Deanna up. She shivered against his chest, stifling sobs. How could he have let it come to this? Deanna wasn't supposed to protect him, he was supposed to protect her. He'd stupidly put himself in danger and she nearly paid the price for it. He held her tighter, rubbing her back in an effort to warm her up with the friction.

The back door hadn't closed all the way when she jumped out. He didn't ask how she knew he'd passed out. Propping the door open with his leg, he set her back in her seat, buckling her in. Sammy was awake, whimpering. Snow had drifted in through the gap and the car was noticeably chiller. Both girls stared at him with somber eyes that cut at his heart.

The engine was still running. John couldn't believe he'd left it running. Perhaps adrenaline cleared his head, but his behavior before he'd passed out surprised him. He'd been acting like a moron. It was clear to John now that he was ill, dangerously ill. From exhaustion, lack of sleep or food, or just plain old sick didn't matter. He was weak, and that dark oblivion crept at the back of his mind like a hungry wolf.

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Author's notes:

I'm actually on time this week! Campnanowrimo is still going, so I nearly forgot and had to do a mad scramble to edit this to get it ready. Totally worth it. I hope you're enjoying this! I certainly am. It's a bunch of fun interacting with you guys and hearing what you have to say about the story. I love it!


	5. Chapter 5

Despite being branded as a no-good troublemaker in his teens, John never stole anything but his stepfather's liquor. His mother was a good catholic and while he didn't share her beliefs as he grew older, he'd always tried to be a son she could be proud of. For the most part he thought he'd succeeded.

The gas station lay deserted. John pounded on the glass door, the interior dark. No answer. The doors shuddered as John tugged at them, to no avail. He pounded the glass again.

The Impala was running on fumes. The heater stopped working after the crash and they were all freezing. John desperately needed food or he'd pass out again. Already he was shivering uncontrollably. Beyond the glass he could see aisles of gas mart food mocking him. His stomach growled. He punched the glass, more out of frustration than anything. What was he going to do? What could he do? There was no telling how far it was to the next gas station, or if that one would be open. They couldn't just wait in the car, not without the heater going. Instead of starving to death, now John had to worry about them all freezing to death.

John walked back to the car, leaning against it, unwilling to get inside. Not empty-handed. He drummed his fingers on the hood, staring at the gas pump. It was there, ready for the taking. Was it really his fault there was no one around to pay? He looked at Deanna, huddled in the backseat with only her head poking out of her blanket. They needed to get somewhere safe and warm, before John was too weak to go on. That wasn't going to happen on an empty tank.

A few minutes later, the Impala rolled out of the gas station with a full tank of gas. A note had been wedged into the pump. It read simply:

 _I'm sorry_.

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And i'm sorry for the unexpected hiatus! So here's what happened: I worked my regular job, which is only part time, buuuut I also taught a summer art camp for most of july, and I worked on my campnanowrimo project. Basically I worked three jobs, and my upload schedule suffered for it. But, two of those things are over, so I can get back on the horse. I know this chapter is short, BUT I will (hopefully) update a bit more frequently to make up for the hiatus! Make sure you're following the story so you don't miss an update!


	6. Chapter 6

If you haven't read 'Salt, Water, Ashes' or 'House of Ashes'...now would probably be a good time to do that. You don't really _need_ to, but it puts the rest of this story into context, so it's a good idea.

Now, we return to your regularly scheduled fanfic...on the 'wrong' day and possibly at the wrong time! But who cares, it's another chapter! Enjoy your fanfic you nerds! *hugs*

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John managed to get the heater working again. A lifetime of fixing cars came in handy every once and awhile. He'd stopped at a rest area, spending a bit of what cash they had left on the vending machine. The junk food invigorated him, but he knew it was only a temporary fix.

He had the map out again. It was obvious to John now that they weren't going to make it to Maine. Not anytime soon, anyways. It wouldn't be any safer either, for them or his mother. He couldn't involve her, couldn't lose anyone else... So, it was time for plan b.

If only he knew what plan b was.

It was still snowing outside. The night around them was pitch black, the only light coming from the interior of the Impala. John poured over the map, trying to find somewhere they could go. Lawrence was out of the question, as was any place they'd already been. He had to get the girls somewhere safe. He had to stay one-step ahead of the thing—things. It wasn't 'I am coming for the children', it was ' _we_ '. The figure in the motel door was not the thing that killed Julie or Jacob. The thing that killed Julie and Jacob was not the same thing that killed Mary.

They were being hunted, and John didn't know where to go.

He trailed a pen down the map. He could go to Arkansas. Deacon lived there and would probably take them in without question; Which is what Julie did. Now Julie was dead. Deacon was a fighter, but there was no way in hell he would believe him if John told him what was happening. Even if he did, he would have no more idea of what to do than John did. It would be Jacob all over again. No, he couldn't go to Deacon.

John pinched the bridge of his nose, rubbing his tired eyes. Where on earth could they be safe from this? He looked over the map again. Maybe going back to Fletcher's was their best option, even if it were a temporary one. At least Fletcher knew what was out there, unlike anyone else John knew.

Hang on. That wasn't completely true. There were others like Fletcher. He'd met two of them. What were their names…Bill? The guy was Bill. John had saved his life. The woman's name…John shook his head. He couldn't remember. Honestly he'd done his best to ignore her, especially after Sam mistook her for Mary, briefly. That had been painful, for all of them.

Bill said something about owing him a drink. Could've just said 'thank you', buddy. However, maybe instead of a drink, Bill could owe him some food and a place to stay, at least for a few hours. Bill said he owned a Roadhouse. Where though? John racked his tired brain, thinking back to that morning. Outside of somewhere. A broken somewhere—broken leg? No, that was stupid. "Use your head, John." He muttered to himself, rubbing his sleep deprived eyes..

Deanna shifted in her sleep. John bit his lip, holding his breath as she settled again. Dressed in the warmest clothes they had left after the fire, she lay with an arm over Sammy's car seat. The coat wasn't much, or very warm. At least she still had one. His mother made it for her, last Christmas when they flew out to Maine. John shook his head. Had it really only been a year since Deanna was running around the bed and breakfast, playing hide and seek with his mother? She'd spoiled Deanna that Christmas, claiming it was for her birthday too, since they'd be gone by then. Of course she'd sent Deanna gifts for her birthday too. Frilly dresses and that ridiculous bow Deanna made him wear after strong-arming him into playing dress up with her—

Bow! Broken Bow, that was it! Bill ran a Roadhouse called Harvelle's outside of Broken Bow! John groaned, head falling in his hands. "Way to go, brain. You did it." He looked at the map again. Broken Bow was easy enough to find, right smack in the middle of nowhere Nebraska. John mentally added up the miles. From where they were now, to Broken Bow was…roughly five hundred miles? If he made good time they could be there by afternoon. There was no guarantee Bill would even remember him, or that he'd even promised him a drink if he ever came by, but it looked like their best option.

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See what i mean about it being a good idea to read the previous fics? Seriously, if you haven't read 'em, go and do so!


	7. Chapter 7

The heater went out less than a hundred miles out from the rest stop. John cursed it, pleaded, and struck the dashboard until both girls were awake and Sammy started crying. A hundred miles after that, Deanna started shivering. John pulled over to find that Deanna had placed her blanket over Sammy to keep her warm. John wanted to cry. Instead, he removed his coat and cap, placing both around his oldest daughter. He had her pull her legs up to her chest, zipping the coat around them, seatbelt and all. The coat enveloped her, emphasizing just how small she really was. How fragile. John could still see her at Sam's age, helpless and tiny, even though she'd been born at nearly nine pounds. In his mind, she was still as much his baby at four years as she had been at four days.

Two hundred miles to go and John started shivering uncontrollably again. Hunger gnawed at him, and he curled in on himself to ease the pain. At one hundred miles, he was struggling to keep his eyes on the road. Shaking himself backfired, as stars briefly obscured his vision. He pulled over, breathing heavily until his vision cleared. Looking in the rearview mirror, he could see Deanna staring at him, wide-eyed with concern.

John gritted his teeth. One hundred miles. Just over an hour if he pushed it. He could do this. He _had_ to do this.

* * *

Outside of Broken Bow. _Real_ specific, Bill.

The snowfall around him was quickly turning into a whiteout. John never felt so cold in his entire life. He couldn't tell which drained him more, the hunger, the cold, or the lack of sleep. Aside from passing out (which he was pretty sure didn't count), John hadn't slept since before Jacob came. He was light-headed, vision swaying a few seconds behind. God, everything hurt. John struggled to stay on the road, the Impala jerking with every shudder that wracked his body. He had no idea where he was going. He'd already driven through Broken Bow twice. How 'outside' Broken Bow had Bill meant? For all John knew, it could be an hour away. There was nothing for it, he was out of options and time was running out.

He'd have to ask for directions.

John pulled over at the next building he saw. He nearly drove straight past it in the blizzard. It looked rundown, and for all he knew it could be abandoned. The Impala shuddered to a stop, but John didn't stop shaking. He was running out of time. He turned to Deanna, doing his best to smile reassuringly. "I'm going to try to get directions. You remember Bill, Mr. Gable's friend?"

Deanna nodded sleepily, rubbing a hand across her eyes.

John was surprised. He didn't think she'd remember. Maybe she was too tired to really take in what he was saying. "I'll only be a minute, so stay in the car, okay?"

Deanna nodded again.

The wind nearly knocked John over. It tore through the layered shirts and bit into his skin. Particles of ice nipped at his face. Every bit of exposed skin was raw and numb before he even reached the door. The wind buffeted him back and forth, and he struggled to walk in a straight line. John could barely feel his hands as he banged on the wooden door.


	8. Chapter 8

*Dodges rotten fruits and vegetables* I know, I know! This is unforgivably late! I am so sorry. Things happened, my internet went down for a month and a half, and for some reason I just never got around to posting! So, as a Valentine's gift, here's the rest of the chapters! Good heck, I'm so sorry for the delay!

* * *

It had been a slow few days at the roadhouse. So slow in fact, that Bill had actually cleaned the place. Twice. They'd decided to close down for the duration of the blizzard, which was giving Bill a horrible case of cabin fever. He'd been antsy since November; Something about owing some civilian his life and not being able to repay it. Danny didn't know, but it was getting annoying. No, it _was_ annoying, it had been annoying from the beginning. Bill was normally easy going, if a bit too enthusiastic. The last few months it'd been like living with a caged tiger. He was snappy, irritable.

Danny looked up from the table in the backroom of the roadhouse. Bill was scrubbing at a splotch on the wall that had been there since he bought the place. Danny sighed, looking back down at the old tome he was leafing through. "You know, it doesn't matter how long you scrub at it, it's not going anywhere."

Bill snapped. "Oh, I'm sorry, would you like to help? Or would you like to sit there and watch my sweet ass do all the work?"

Ellen walked by carrying a tray full of empty classes. "I'd love to see that, thank you Bill." She winked at him, laughing.

"Hilarious, Ellen."

Danny chuckled. "You've gotta admit, you walked straight into that."

Bill rolled his eyes. He strode over to the sink, tossing his rag in like a basketball. It landed on Ellen's glasses. She turned to glare at him.

"Sorry."

Over the wind howling outside, a sudden pounding shook through the Roadhouse. The three of them looked up and over to the main room.

Ellen raised an eyebrow. "Debris?"

The pounding paused, and then intensified. "Pretty determined debris."

Danny sighed, rising from the table. "I'll get it." Bill actually looked disappointed.

The door of the Roadhouse shook under the frenzied knocking. It sounded suspiciously like 'shave and a haircut'. The windows rattled, shaking in the wind. Danny wouldn't be surprised if one of them blew out before the storm was over.

"We're closed!" Danny yelled as he neared the door. The knocking didn't stop. "Are you deaf and blind? We're—" Danny opened the door, fully intending to give whoever was on the other side a piece of his mind.

The man on the other side of the door was thin and gaunt. He towered over Danny despite hunching against the wind. He was so pale and sunken that Danny nearly went for his silver knife, or the shotgun filled with consecrated iron. Danny flinched back. "Holy—"

The man was shivering uncontrollably; and no wonder, dressed in jeans and a long sleeved button up. No coat, no jacket. The wind blew dark hair into his hooded eyes. His teeth chattered together as he spoke. "I'm," he stopped, eyes glazing over for a moment. He looked about ready to drop. Or like he'd already dropped and crawled back out of his grave. "I'm looking for Bill… Harvelle's." He stammered with difficultly.

"Uh…Bill!" Danny yelled over his shoulder. All remaining weight seemed to leave the man and his knees buckled. His eyes rolled into the back of his head as he fell forward. Danny panicked. "Bill!"


	9. Chapter 9

John opened his eyes slowly. He couldn't see anything. Blinking hard, he opened his eyes again. There was no difference. There was a flash of panic, a fear of having gone blind. Then a sliver of light peeked across the floor. As his eyes adjusted, John could see vague impressions of furniture, barely more than shapes. He was lying on a narrow bed. Pain shot through him as he attempted to move. Groaning aloud and gritting his teeth he tried again. Muscles pulled, strained. John rolled from his side to his stomach. Pushing himself up with his arms hurt like hell, like fire boiling in his tendons and bones. Head pounding, stars dancing in his vision he forced himself to stay in a seated position until it passed. Every movement hurt like he'd run a marathon, climbed a mountain and fell down the other side of it. The bones in his legs ached as he shifted them from beneath scratchy sheets.

John took stock of himself before standing. Head still attached? check. Neck sore and stiff? Check. He wiggled his fingers. They were stiff, but all still there. Check. John wiggled his toes, checking for feeling in his legs. Pain tore through him like a knife. Yup, feeling in his legs. Check. Oh god, check.

Upon standing, the blood rushed from his head. Limited vision blurred and John sat back down. The sheets scraped uncomfortably across his skin as he gripped them tight to ground himself. Already his breathing grew heavy, labored. Where was he? The last thing he remembered was white. Everything went white again.

Again?

John shook his head. Instead of clearing it, the movement made his head spin. Fighting nausea, John gripped the sheets tighter. He felt sticky, like he hadn't showered for weeks. Forcing himself to stand, John gritted his teeth and fought to stay upright. _Muscle through it, Winchester_.

John let his breath out in a huff, barely keeping himself from shaking his head again. Shambling across the room, to the crack of light, John struggled to move in a straight line. He swayed side to side, stumbling, pausing to catch himself. Limbs shook, muscles ached. Nausea pulled at his hollow stomach and gut, swirling like a toilet flushing. John groaned, one hand going to his forehead as the other steadied himself against the wall. He shuttered, body clenching. Breathing deeply through his nose, John could smell…

Waffles?

Reaching blindly, John's hand scrabbled along the wall until he felt the cold metal door handle. He pushed against it. It didn't budge. It must open the other way. John pulled. The door shifted and stuck. He grumbled, yanking hard.

The sudden brightness blinded worse than the darkness had. John squeezed his eyes shut, grimacing. The light sent fresh waves of pain into his aching skull. Cool air washed over him, throwing his damp skin into sharper focus. John lifted an arm up in a vain attempt to shield his eyes.

"Dad!" Wood scraped against wood. Forcing his throbbing eyes open, John could see the blurry outline of Deanna running towards him, arms outstretched. Out of habit, he reached for her, opening his arms. She leapt into them. Vainly trying to lift Deanna to him, John instead fell to his knees with her. Ignoring his screaming legs, he held Deanna close.

The light still hurt, but John's vision steadily cleared. The wooden floor beneath him was dark, easier on his eyes. Deanna's messy hair was pulled back. She squeezed him tight. Her little arms wrapped around his aching head.

"Hey sweetheart." He breathed. John made an effort to stand again. His muscles wouldn't obey him. Mentally he shrugged. Staying on the floor seemed just fine for now.

"You're awake."

John looked up, squinting. Bill sat at a little table in the center of the room, feeding Sammy a bottle. He looked much the same as John remembered him. Average build and height with a glint of humor in his eyes. His beard looked fuller than last time. Bill stood, awkwardly shifting Sammy as he did. There was a special kind of fear when someone else held your baby. John felt like screaming, like yanking Sammy out of Bill's hands. It was an impulse he'd learned to curb when Deanna was a baby. It drove Mary absolutely crazy, but they were so _fragile_ , so small. John was constantly afraid he'd break them, especially those first few months. There was no telling what other people might do, or how careful they'd be. Sam looked content in Bill's arms, so John let it go as much as he could.

Bill strode quickly to John, extending his free hand to John. He took it and Bill hefted him to his feet. John felt a little light headed, but for once stars didn't cloud his vision. He nodded briefly in thanks. Deanna still clung to him, wrapping her legs around his chest. John didn't even mind the pain it caused.

Bill stayed by him, supporting him when he stumbled. "Here, take a seat." John nearly fell, briefly, and he could see panic flash in Bill's eyes.

John sat heavily, bones jarring. He gritted his teeth, seething. He probably wasn't moving anytime soon. The room they were in was small, consisting of a small kitchen, the table, and a ring of small couches. Every spare inch of wall was covered in bookshelves of varying sizes. Each clashed with the other. Different colors, different textures, different sizes of books. The books looked old, like the mountain of books Fletcher carted around with him. In the leftover space, strange symbols had been carved into the wooden walls and doorframes.

John took stock of the exits. There was the door he'd come through, behind him. to his right was a door with a diamond shaped window. From this angle he couldn't see through to the next room. To his left was the final door, on the same wall as the kitchen window. It was a safe bet that door lead outside. A thick ring of salt surrounded that door.

Aside from the four of them, the room was empty. Used dishes littered the table in front of him, covered in the remains of eggs, bacon, and syrup. John's stomach roared at him, hunger gnawing at his hollow stomach.

Bill didn't sit back down. "Hungry?" he looked at John, already moving to the kitchen.

Deanna lifted her head off John's chest. "Bill made waffles."

It was the most he'd heard he speak in weeks. His heart lifted at the sound of her voice. Unconsciously, John grinned, looking down at her. "Bill made waffles? Did you eat some?"

Deanna nodded. "Mmm-hmm!" she was looking down at his shirt, like she was going to go quiet again.

John wanted to keep her talking, about anything. "How'd they taste?"

Deanna snuggled back into his chest. "Not as good as yours."

There was a bark of laughter from Bill at that. John smiled, touched and a little proud of Deanna. His heart felt lighter than it had in months. The girls were safe. Deanna was talking. It wasn't much, but it made a world of difference to John.

Bill set a plate in front of John. John's stomach howled in triumph. Bacon, eggs, and potatoes, not to mention the two thick waffles taking up the center of the plate. His mouth watered. "It might be a bit cold, but…"

John was already digging in, shaking his head. The food was cold, but he'd never tasted anything so good. "Thank you." He mumbled around a mouthful of food. Mary would have glared at him for that.

Bill sat back down to John's right. Sam still sucked away at her bottle. John frowned slightly. How much had Bill made for her? He had no problem with her eating—in fact, he was thrilled—but they were running low on formula. John couldn't remember how much money was left. Worry and panic flared in the back of his mind. What if they ran out, and he didn't have the money to get more? John forced the worry down. He'd figure it out. He didn't know how, but he had to figure something out. They were counting on him.

Sammy cooed, smiling around her bottle at John. He swallowed, smiling back at her. "Hey Sammy." Squirming upright in Bill's arms (which seemed to surprise him. he probably didn't know she could do that) she reached out for John. The bottle slipped, Bill catching it. Good reflexes.

Bill looked a little uncertain of what to do. "Uh…" He looked at Deanna, still clinging to John like a limpet.

John set his fork down, holding his arms out. "Here, I can take her."

Bill raised an eyebrow. "You sure?"

John nodded. It was about time he held both his babies.

Bill shrugged, unconvinced. Awkwardly leaning forward, he passed Sammy to John. John cradled Sammy in the crook of his right arm, taking the bottle from Bill and giving it back to her. She sucked greedily at it, smiling up at him. John couldn't help but smile back. After both girls had settled, John used his free hand to continue eating. Bill looked a little impressed.

John smirked a little around his food. If there was one thing he could be proud of as a parent, it was his ability to hold both his children at the same time.

* * *

So...I really have no excuse for the delay. Not a good one at least. Please feel free to throw all the things at me.

There was an epilogue to this, but it was-and still is-kinda crappy, so I scrapped it. I may, if you guys really want me to, go back and edit it so it can be posted. It just had some things with Ellen and Danny, and explaining what happened while John was out.


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